The Apology of Madame Tibaldi
by BedeFan
Summary: This fanfic was inspired by the Ghost and Mrs Muir Episode, Medium Well Done featuring as a guest star the fabulous Shirley Booth as Madame Tibaldi. It was also inspired by a picture taken as a publicity shot for the film, Comedy of Terrors starring Vincent Price, Basil Rathbone, Peter Lorre and Boris Karloff. The picture had the actors in coffins, reading. In Progress!
1. Chapter 1

Claymore Gregg, tall, balding and be-speckled was a happy man, which was not his normal state. A few minute earlier he had found change someone had dropped on the sidewalk - enough for a cup of coffee at the diner with 2 cents to spare. He sat there at the counter now, indulging in a free cup of rather good coffee - the steam curling about his smiling face. But it was not the free coffee that made him happy.

A couple of minutes before stepping out on the sidewalk, Claymore had raised the rent on not one but two properties which certainly gladdened his greedy heart but that is not why he was so happy. The citizens of Schooner Bay who knew him well now gave him sideways glances because as he sat there at the counter amongst them he seemed a man transformed. There was just something about Claymore that did not seem right - although it did at least seem a good thing. This special whatever-it-was air about Claymore was perplexing to be certain. It was something never seen before so they all said.

Claymore just smiled to himself, unaware as he was in his state of practical bliss that anyone was paying attention to him at all and what's more he did not care. Even if he had wanted to, he could not share his reasons anyway. If his neighbors only knew they were not seeing a new Claymore Gregg. Oh no indeed, in fact they were seeing an old Claymore, a Claymore from a time long ago, a Claymore that had not been seen since that fateful day in his childhood when he went to Gull Cottage and found the lively ghost of his long dead possible uncle, Captain Daniel Gregg. That was the day that had transformed the boy Claymore from a happy if somewhat self-absorbed boy into a self-absorbed Nervous Nelly.

Many people do not believe in ghosts and Claymore was one of them until he had no choice. It is one thing to not believe in ghosts, it is another to deny what one can see, hear and most definitely feel as it picks you up and tosses you out the door. Claymore became a believer that day because he had no other choice. His one great wish from that day to this was that he had never met Captain Gregg.

Believing in ghosts is one thing, wanting them in your life quite another. Maybe if Captain Gregg had been a loveable, friendly ghost, a warm and welcoming ghost, a kind and helpful ghost, a funny and entertaining ghost - anything other than a grumpy, hostile entity with a wicked sense of humor and a delight in pranks, Claymore might have actually enjoyed having him around. But the Captain was not a happy ghost. He in fact was rather miserable and he took it out on anyone who came to close to his home, especially Claymore who irritated him to no end. As the years past, the relationship did not improve. Claymore had learned how to avoid the Captain as much as possible, but still, the Captain was always there and could, if he wanted to, frighten Claymore out of his skin any time he pleased. Is it any wonder then that Claymore's fondest wish was to send the Captain on his way to where ever spirits go - as long as it was far away from Schooner Bay? Unfortunately for Claymore, it was not possible.

But then, one day completely by accident Claymore found his answer - Madame Olivia Tibaldi, a Medium of rare renown came to Schooner Bay and happened to be of such talent that she could exorcise a ghost! Or so she said. Claymore, having spent many years feeling tormented, not to mention burdened by having a property - Gull Cottage that earned him very little money only because of that dastardly difficult ghost - seized the only glimmer of hope that had ever come his way. He hired her on the spot to send the Captain packing. Never mind that the others who actually lived with the Captain would be heart broken if ever he left them.

And so it was that Madame Tibaldi, a funny little woman of good cheer and good intentions held a seance - much to the ghostly Captain's amusement and drove the spirit from the house - or so it seemed - even as Mrs. Muir tried to stop the proceedings. Claymore was elated. Oblivious to the fact that he was the only one, - and so found himself to be a truly happy man for the first time in his adult life. On that most happy note Claymore left the cottage, had the best night's sleep in years, and awoke the next morning still in a state of bliss. So it was that he sat at the counter with his free coffee, planning what to do next to the Gull Cottage property and smiling from ear to ear, a man truly transformed.


	2. Chapter 2

After the seance had ended, Mrs. Carolyn Muir, the lovely widow renting the cottage, who truth be told was in love with the ghost, whether she admitted it to herself or not, tried not to panic. Surely the Captain wasn't really gone. He couldn't be gone - it was a silly seance, he was a mighty ghost if he did say so himself - and he did! Yet, he did not seem to be around. Normally the house just felt, somehow warmer when he was there. Now it felt strangely cold and lonely.

As for Captain Gregg, tall, handsome and ghostly, he was gone - but not too far. He was too fine and strong a ghost to be driven from his own home, a home he built himself by a kindly if confused medium. No, she did not drive him out, he simply went to sit on rocky point around the cove where he could commune with the gentled water of the cove and the untamed Atlantic at the same time. He intended to stay only for a day or so before returning home.

The next day was beautiful with the sun was on his face and the wind in his hair - or would have been if he were not a ghost. At least he could remember how it was. His thoughts turned to his beloved home and his dear Mrs. Muir. She was truly dear to him as he did love her and did not mind admitting it to himself at least, even as he considered that as a ghost he had no right to her heart. A sore point, cure the Fates! He thought too of the children, which were to him as his own and wondered what they were doing while he was gone. He hoped he wasn't missed too much - but still, it would be nice if they did miss him a bit.

It was indeed a fine day to be out on the rocky point, the sky was clear, the birds were circling. He wished he could bring the boy Jonathan here - he was a fine lad and this had been a favorite spot of the Captain's when he was a lad - a spot that was considered too dangerous then as now and he was taken to task for being there many a time. It did no good of course, he had been as stubborn as a boy as when a man - and a ghost! Crossing his own people and playing on the point was one thing, crossing Mrs. Muir to bring Jonathan here was another. Perhaps when the lad was older.

Then he heard it - Carolyn, that is to say Mrs. Muir calling him. He could just picture her beautiful eyes, green like the sea under her crown of golden hair. Eyes possibly brimming with tears for him, her dearly departed who had departed? Well, maybe not tears, she was level headed and made of rather stern stuff for a woman, not given to hysterics. Still, he could hear the sadness in her voice and when she called, nothing could keep him from her - not even his own self. In death as in life he was a proud man and a master of his own being, and yet, he was ghostly putty in the hands of Carolyn Muir. In the blink of an eye he was with her.

When Carolyn turned and saw him she could not hide her joy, love and relief at seeing him - although she did not fall apart or jump for joy or shout to the rooftops. Her beautiful face said it all. For the Captain's part, he would have popped out and back again if he thought he could make those emotions play once more across her face - but he knew he would have to settle for what he had witnessed and besides, her expression now with twinkling happy eyes was a fine sight in itself. Carolyn was so relieved to see her handsome Captain once more - and he was strikingly handsome, there was no denying it. He certainly knew it, but she had forgiven him his enormous ego and fallen for the man or rather ghost behind it. After all, it was one thing to endure a vain man who had no cause for vanity, but Captain Daniel Gregg in life and after was magnificent and would remain so always having died while in the best of health.

On Claymore's next visit to Gull Cottage he quickly learned that he had celebrated all too soon as the Captain was indeed still in residence. His happiness was ended, and he returned to his normal state of nervousness. Unlike Claymore the Muirs was joyful with the turn of events - the house was not a real home without its ghostly resident.

When time came for Madame Tibaldi to depart it was not without some sadness- she really was a sweet woman and although she did not know it, she had done no harm. She and Carolyn wished each other the best and then a peculiar thing happened - Madame Tibaldi felt as if someone kissed her cheek - but clearly there was no one there - or maybe...? And so she left, hoping that the Captain would find his way back someday.

Soon memories of the seance faded but not for Madame Tibaldi who was not told of the Captain's return. As she traveled about her thoughts often turned to the vision of the fiery-eyed specter at the seance, and her realization - too late!- that Claymore's problem was not everyone's problem. Madame Tibaldi never did anything by halves, and she never caused harm to the innocent. At Gull Cottage she had made a grave mistake, there was no denying it, and she needed to make amends and set things right. She could not just rely on hope that the Captain would return. No. She needed to find a way to bring back Captain Daniel Gregg for good!


	3. Chapter 3

Madame Tibaldi left Gull Cottage to continue her tour of New England and soon thoughts of the Captain and what to do slipped to the back of her mind as her tour of New England slipped way down the East Coast. She soon found herself going far beyond any place she had originally intended to visit being drawn away from her native region to areas further south.

A tree in Charleston seemed full of spirit, or rather spirits! She could sense them and not see them. Months later when she collected her pictures of the tree from the camera store the large, ancient oak was covered in glowing orbs. The man at the counter apologized for what he could not explain, even offering a free roll of film, but Madame poo-pooed the suggestion saying she found the pictures fascinating - and not bothering to explain what she knew that he did not.

Then a strong urge to go about in the gardens of Savannah grabbed her. It would have been alright if she had done her exploring during the day and not at midnight on private property - which led to barking dogs, a gun shot and a large Savannah policeman with a very bright flashlight suggesting that whatever she was doing was best done in the day. Madame Tibaldi almost tried to explain why she was visiting gardens in the dark of the night, and then thought better of it and pretended to take his advice. She concluded that someone really ought to write a book about the place - such atmosphere!

She continued south to Florida, St. Augustine, where she found herself gripped with the definite feeling of being psychically contacted by someone - the impression was vague and yet strong - someone with six toes?! Never one to argue with the spirit world, she let the psychic winds take her away, away, away to Key West. Hot, humid, breezy and beautiful, Key West was a great place to get away and have a drink. Some came for a day, some for a life time. Madame settled in to her hotel room and then started to follow her senses as she searched for someone with six toes.

She found Mr. Toes - the name that had come to her mind as she searched for him - resting in the shade of some native plants in front of a 2-story, limestone antebellum house with a certain French colonial feel about it. She recognized him instantly, his pale blue eyes in a darkly handsome face, his large, sleek well muscled physique, his glossy midnight black fur - for he was in fact a six-toed cat and his real name was Poe as in Edgar Allan.

He was old for a cat at 23 though you'd never know it by looking and his mind was still sharp - he just missed having people around he could really talk to. Madame Tibaldi found him to be delightful company and a fine story-teller which was only natural considering who's cat he had once been. They sat and communed quietly for a few hours and Madame Tibaldi assured him his owners who had passed on, a kind lady with taste and her husband the writer who punched furiously with his fingers at a black and silver thing called a typewriter, were better now. Poe was happy to hear that and rolled over, stretching all his toes - he had extras on all his paws making them look particularly large and fluffy.

The sun was setting as Poe escorted Madame Tibaldi made their way to a little building down the street where, Poe assured her, she would find excellent conch soup and Cuban coffee. As they said their goodbyes, as a thank you he mentioned to his new friend that she really should change her plans and take a boat that would be leaving tomorrow for New Orleans. As her original plans were long out the window much to her publisher's despair, Madame Tibaldi thought why not? After all if a black cat picks out a boat for you, you should not ignore it for it surely must be a message from the Beyond. Or if not, it should be!


	4. Chapter 4

The conch soup was delicious, rich, thick, spicy - just the thing to warm you up and mellow you out. It was not a chowder, not to Madame Tibaldi's Boston eye at any rate no matter what the restaurant said. Technically she supposed it was really not a soup either but a stew. No matter, it hit the spot and she was tempted to ask for seconds, but was glad she had saved room for the out of this world key lime pie - so creamy and rich and sweet and tartly lime. Oh so, so good. When finished, Madame Tibaldi was well and truly sleepy - the sampling of various rum cocktails probably helped - and she headed off to her room and her bed with no particular thoughts in her head.

While Madame sleeps and before she dreams, let us check in on Schooner Bay.

Everything in Schooner Bay was really back to normal and everyone was quite happy - excepting Claymore of course. If only Madame Tibaldi had stopped back by before heading out to her tour of places she had never intended to go she would know there was no need for her to try to make up for what she thought she did - but did not actually do to the fiery eyed spirit of Captain Gregg. But of course, she had not stopped in.

If only she had checked on her mail at her home in Boston she would have gotten a little package from Schooner Bay, from Carolyn Muir with the article and a thank you note which among other things was intended to assure Madame Tibaldi that everything in Schooner Bay was back to normal and everyone was quite happy - there was no mention of Claymore - and there was no reason to worry about anything. But of course she wasn't checking on her mail or having anyone else check on her mail, it was just piling up in a big box at the post office - she would get around to it when she came back. Eventually.

Her visit had though had an impact on one fine young resident of the town - Jonathan. Taking the idea that Scruffy was better suited to chess than checkers to heart, Jonathan decided that he would learn to master the game of kings himself - with Scruffy's help of course. Candy was not interested - checkers was straight forward she thought but chess had too many rules and some of them made no sense - why for example, could a queen go as far as she wanted in any direction but a king had to creep along, one space at a time? Deciding chess was no fun, Candy wanted no part of it.

At first Jonathan felt he had let Scruffy down a bit - how would they find out if Scruffy really did have a talent for chess if no one would play with him? The problem was solved as soon as Jonathan had the chance to speak with Captain Gregg. Jonathan had been the first of the Muirs to be aware of the Captain's ghost and as gruff as the Captain was, he had taken an instant liking to the lad. Perhaps it was because having lost his own parents at a young age the Captain recognized the loneliness in the boy. Whatever the reason, there wasn't anything he would not do for the boy who had so quickly become like a son to him. In this case it was no sacrifice as the Captain loved to play chess. Although he hadn't played in years, he still remembered the game well - he had been and remained a very good player. Jonathan was a quick study and as it turned out Scruffy did have an odd talent of his own for the game.

Once his confidence in his ability to play had grown, Jonathan let his friends know he was now a chess player. Most did not really know what it was except that you played it on a checker board, but some of his friends had older siblings and they knew that in high school there was a Chess Club. The only students who were in the Chess Club were the Brains. That meant that Jonathan was a Brain. A Brain that could play sports! That meant that Jonathan was a rarity at his school and his reputation and popularity grew.

Candy wasn't quite sure how to take having a little brother who was becoming popular, but she figured it was better than having a little brother who was unpopular. Jonathan being a Brain was a little harder to swallow as he didn't seem like a Brain to her, but who knew? It could be true.

When Mrs. Muir heard about her son the Brain she was amused and hoped it would show up in more of his school work. As for the Captain, he practically glowed with pride. He knew the lad had it in him all along, and Jonathan really did show an aptitude for chess and the Captain enjoyed being able to play again, finally.


	5. Chapter 5

In time to come Jonathan would realize that there was an upside as well as a downside to being thought of as a Brain. The upside seemed to include extra pieces of free penny candy from the little store - but that could have also been a reward for good manners. The downside included having the mother's of the girls in his class smiled at him more it seemed. He didn't know why, but it was kinda creepy - like most of the girls themselves.

The coolness of being a chess player also suffered the day he saw the chess team. He knew it was the chess team because they wore t-shirts that had "Chess Team" across the front. One reasonably cool looking guy - he played baseball, Jonathan had seen him at a game, and three not remotely cool looking fellows - glasses, braces, too thin to cast shadows, and bad posture Jonathan now knew playing baseball was more important than ever.

Let us check in now on Madame Tibaldi -

Yes, she is asleep and oh yes there she goes, off to Dreamland. We'll follow along.

Blue. That's all Madame Tibaldi could see - changing shades of blue. There was no substance to the blue, it just surrounded her, untouchable. as blue was not her color, she found it very odd. Purple suited her much better. She thought of purple and closed her dream eyes, but when she opened them, the blue was still there and purple was nowhere to be found.

Oh! The blue now is a blue Florida sky, completely clear, not a cloud in sight. But oh that sun, that searing, relentless sun! Just burning away, away, if only there was some shade - suddenly there is shade! Inky black too - wait - that's not shade its a cat sitting on her chest, blocking the sun from her face - Poe of the blue eyes. So wise those eyes, so serene.

"Don't miss your boat," said Poe - after all in Dreamland cats can talk. But why did he sound like Humphrey Bogart? Bogart was in Key Largo, not Key West and oh Lauren Bacall - she had eyes like a cat too...

Eyes. Eyes are the windows of the soul, what was it about eyes? Madame Tibaldi is trying to remember one thing while dreaming another. Oh, dear! Don't you just hate that when it happens to you?

Eyes! Oh I think she has it now - eyes, fiery blue eyes - she can see them now, those certain, special eyes - the eyes of the handsome ghost of the dashing Captain that with her powers she had sent to the far reaches of the spirit world - or at least away from Gull Cottage. She thought, wrongly of course - but she still does not know that, only we do.

Oh the Captain, and she had promised to make amends. Strictly speaking she had promised only herself that she would make amends, but a promise is a promise after all. She would have to get back on the case - after catching that boat.

Her alarm clock - if she had had one would say it is now 6 AM and she needed to be up and moving. As a matter of principle, Madame Tibaldi did not have an alarm clock. She moved when the spirits moved her – which was right now!


	6. Chapter 6

Dawn was just breaking when Madame Tibaldi went to breakfast. What do you eat when you are about to go on a cruise? She settled for french toast and coffee as she thought avoiding anything heavy and greasy would be best. She was of the impression she was to find a beautiful sailing yacht with a gourmet chef on board. She was wrong.

As she looked about, knowing she would know her ship when she saw it, her eyes fell on a particular vessel and her jaw dropped - literally. Oh no. No, no, no... and she knew even as she attempted mental denial that this was her ship. It had to be. She stood there in the morning sun and then she chuckled. Then she giggled and then she laughed out right. Of course! What would a cat think of as a ship of luxury but a shrimp boat!

At first she thought she should just quietly go back to her original plans but that was not her way. She had been given an otherworldly direction so it was best to take it. She approached the man who appeared to be the captain.

Captain Bob Jackson was a barrel-chested man in his early 50's with gray hair a permanent tan, and a cigarette glued to his lip. He smoked Winstons because as the saying went, they tasted good like a cigarette should. He would have already been well on his way, but a series of little things had kept him in port. Things that never jammed had jammed. The engine seemed to have a mystery problem. Somehow no one seemed to remember to go buy the supplies they needed for the trip - simple things like coffee, bacon, eggs, bread, butter and Winstons - things that should have been stocked yesterday - so he had to wait for a store to open and that meant he was losing time and that meant he was not in the best of moods.

He watched the little lady in a purple flower print dress, with open-toed wedge heeled shoes, large sun hat, large sun glasses, two suit cases and a purse make her way towards his boat. Clearly, she was lost. He thought about just going round the other side and pretending not to notice her. Instead, he tried staying at the rail and appearing hostile and unapproachable. She of the purple flowers approached anyway.

Captain Jackson soon found himself explaining many things to the woman. Madame Tibaldi had taken off her sun glasses and given him her most winning smile before explaining that she wanted to travel on his shrimp boat. The captain had almost swallowed his cigarette at the suggestion. Clearly the poor little woman had been in the sun too long.

So he said no which was a mistake because that was all the opening Madame Tibaldi needed. He tried to be polite, he tried to be reasonable, and she, well, she worked him over.

Captain Jackson found himself explaining the difference between boats and ships, stating that his boat, the Freddie was one of the larger shrimp boats, admitting he could get sea sick out in the gulf which is why A) he didn't go out across the gulf and B) that he had gotten the Freddie because as it was larger than average he felt it rolled a little less. At least he could tell himself it rolled less

He was a native of Key West, his wife was from New Orleans, he trawled for shrimp from New Orleans to the Panhandle, and then came down the coast to the keys to visit family. He'd go back the way he came. No, she could not go.

No, he did not take passengers. He never took passengers. Never, ever in his 40 years did he take passengers. The patience of a saint were required to deal with this woman and he was no saint. He had been chain smoking all the while he talked with her. He only did that when his wife was having babies, or he thought the boat might sink in a bad storm. Where were his people? The stores were open by now.

Yes he liked cats. And dogs. And alligator when cooked right. He thought that last was so funny he laughed to himself, but Madame Tibbilty or whatever her name was didn't seem to get the joke.

A sandy-haired boy covered in black grease came up on deck. One of the Captain's sons. he had come to let him know they could try the motor again anytime he was ready. One bit of good news. The boy was a lanky 14 year-old called Boo, or at least that's what it sounded like to Madame Tibaldi's ears. He thought she was a little funny - but nice. When she mentioned out of the blue that she could cook, he reached for her suitcases.

Captain Jackson, lighting yet another cigarette started to stop him, but truth was they could use a cook - his brother Bill usually did it, but he sprained both ankles two nights ago and was going to stay on Key West to recover. Everybody else who could cook well had reasons not to make this trip. Those who were left could cook but not many could eat what they cooked and that was a problem. But it would be crazy to take on this lady - although just one time going one way, and he had had women on the boat before, he wasn't like some who thought they were bad luck, its just they were always women in the family who came along to cook and help out as they could.

He finally agreed to take her, figuring they would know if it was a terrible mistake by the time they hit the Panhandle and he could drop her in Pensacola if need be - she'd be able to get where she wanted to go from there. Half a pack of cigarettes were gone. Boo took her luggage, Captain Jackson helped her on board. Maybe they could find something for her to wear, but he didn't know if they would or not. No sooner had Madame Tibaldi settled into the tiny galley than the rest of the crew returned in what seemed like an odd coincidence to the Captain. Suddenly, everything seemed to be working as it should and they were off to New Orleans while only a black cat on shore watched them go.


	7. Chapter 7

Now dear readers, I would like to present to you Madame Tibaldi's Exciting Sea-born Adventures.

However, there were none.

Instead, Madame Tibaldi, Captain Jackson and the crew of the Freddie had a really pleasant journey. A normal trip. The shrimp catch was a bit better than normal, but it was a good time of year and the weather was perfect.

So no exciting adventures, and yet, a meaningful journey nonetheless. Madame Tibaldi had stepped aboard the Freddie declaring she could cook. True to her word, she took over the galley and prepared an outstanding lunch. Somewhere along the way she gave up her purple dress, hat, glasses and shoes and found herself in sensible tennis shoes, dungarees and an old shirt. She had to roll her sleeves and pants, but she was comfortable and the crew became comfortable with "Ms. Olivia" as she was soon known to one and all. Before the Freddie was halfway to the Panhandle, Ms. Olivia and Captain Bob as she called him were well on their way to the start of a happy and life long friendship.

Not only was Ms. Olivia a dab hand in the kitchen - she credited the fresh seafood the crew gave her to work with - but she also could sew and so with only minimal instruction from the captain, she was soon helping to check and mend the nets. By the time they reached Pensacola, the only thing being off loaded from the Freddie was a fine catch of gulf shrimp.

By the time the Freddie reached New Orleans, Ms. Olivia was considered to be one of the family and the crew was going to miss her terribly, and her cooking even more! Bob arranged for one of his sons to drive her to her hotel, but not before inviting her to a family gathering and she promised to attend.

Olivia spent the next couple of days recuperating in her hotel, enjoying the hotel breakfast of coffee and beignets followed by a morning walk around the French Quarter, a light lunch at one of the many wonderful restaurants followed by an afternoon nap and then dinner. She slowly left Ms. Olivia behind and returned once more to being Madam Tibaldi. Bob's sons Boo and his brother Jack picked her up on the third day for the party down in the bayou. Bob's wife, Leonie was a Cajun with large dark eyes and long dark hair and a beautiful accent. Even when Madame Tibaldi could not understand a word she was saying, she still loved to hear her say it. Leonie's family hosted the party and proved to be just as warm and welcoming as one might expect. There was enough food to feed an army and then some. Long tables piled with crawfish, a huge kettle of gumbo, and much, much more. Beer appeared from somewhere - no matter how much was consumed there was always more, a dance floor was laid out and a band played. Everyone wanted Madame Tibaldi to feel welcome and so she was invited to dance and dance and dance long into the evening. Although her feet felt as if they might fall off and she was quite out of breath, she loved every minute of it. Leonie rescued her more than once from some of her widowed uncles. Even though Madame Tibaldi would not really want to live on the bayou and travel about by boat, the attention did put a smile on her face.

When the dancing and the feasting were finally over - Madame Tibaldi had even tried alligator - tastes like chicken?! She was happy, the kind of happy that comes with being exhausted by joyful activity, and she was stuffed to the gills - her new friends wanted to send her back to the hotel with plenty of left overs and she refused, not wanting to hurt their feelings but being logical enough to know there just was no place to keep the bounty being offered. She regretted not being able to take some food with her - oh my it was all so good! But her mind ruled her stomach, in this case at least. Boo and Jack returned her to her lodgings in the wee hours of the morning. She ended up sleeping in, missing her beloved beignet breakfast, her morning walk and almost her lunch. All in all, it had been a glorious party she would never forget.


	8. Chapter 8

Three Days Later -

Madame Tibaldi had clearly over indulged at the party, but hey, you only live once! (Unless of course you reincarnate as Madame has done several times.) By the third day she was back to her old self. Between now and the party she had taken it easy, sticking to the local shops - oh the antiques! She had communed with the spirits in a centuries old, large French Empire armoire - the stories they could tell - actually they were all versions of the same story - the armoire had belonged over the centuries to a collection of amorous ladies and gents who all married and then somehow found time to play with other ladies and gents who found themselves hiding in the armoire whenever the spouses showed up unexpectedly. Outrage! Duels! Deaths! and of course love, even in the armoire, or so it said. Madame Tibaldi believed it and so its worthy of mention here.

She managed to drift far enough afield to have her first shrimp po boy - which became a firm favorite for life. Music caught her ear and she found herself bopping about to the songs of Professor Longhair. She had never before or since heard anyone play piano like that. He must have had twenty fingers because ten were not enough to make that mesmerizing sound.

The third day then would have been expected to be more of the same, but Madame felt renewed and energetic and wanted to walk. So after her breakfast when she went for her walk she went further than ever before. In the wrong direction. Well, to any of us it would have been in the wrong direction and it was not the direction that Madame had intended, but as Madame would explain, there are no wrong directions, only new ones. So, stuffed with her beloved beignets she stepped out and turned away from her usual path to take a route that led down into a part of town she had never seen.

No longer surrounded by the red bricks and black iron of the French Quarter, she now found herself on the increasingly broken streets of a very different part of town. The houses were one story and made of wood. Some had porches, some had had porches in the distant past. Many were shotgun style - all the rooms in one line so if you fired a shotgun in the front door you could hit all the way through to the back door. Others had a rambling style from years of having people add on here and there with no planning permit to be seen. The sideways were cracked, dogs sat about too lazy to actually get up and investigate the strange little woman wandering about.

At a corner of the street and an alley - it was hard to tell what was the street and what was the alley, there sat one of the more rambling style of houses. It was painted white in most places with bare, silvery wood showing everywhere else. The porch took up have of the front, the other half of the porch had been enclosed some time ago. A couple of spindly brick chimneys stood above the roof. Smoke drifted from the one towards the back. The porch was filled with children, a cat sat on the wooden rail, his face expressed disgust with the world but he said nothing. Maybe he was just disgusted with the dog on the floor beneath him.

The children stared at Madame Tibaldi. One young boy stepped out - maybe 6 years old? Tall for his age wearing blue shorts and a bandage on his toe. He told Madame that she was expected and needed to come inside. Mama Tey was waiting.

Let us take a moment to consider what a sensible person would do. Now let's guess what Madame Tibaldi did.

She went in. Into a house she had never seen in a part of town she had never visited in a city that was not her own to meet a woman she had never met because a child she did not know said she was expected and needed to come in.

The first room smelled of smoke, wood smoke and tobacco and food, fried and spicy. The walls were covered in a large floral print wall paper, but time and smoke had faded the flowers and covered everything in a general layer of brown tint. A beaded curtain filled one doorway and what looked like the kitchen could be seen beyond it. This was the room beneath the chimney with the smoke. A blue drape marked another door and a third had a folding door. The young boy led Madame through the blue drape.

Beyond the blue drape they went through a series of rooms. The further they went, the stronger the smell of smoke, until Madame started noticing that the ceiling had a layer of smoke growing thicker all the time. She could smell tobacco getting stronger wood getting weaker and now incense? By the time they reached their destination, the smoke layer in the ceiling was a foot thick.

Incense burners were around, thin lines of smoke twisting and rising to the ceiling. Candles too were lit and provided the only real light in the room giving a golden glow against the very brown walls. At the far end of the narrow room was a table with more candles and more incense. The air was very thick and did not move much, as the windows were closed and there was no fan. Behind the table sat Mama Tey. Madame realized her young guide was gone and she was alone in the presence of Mama Tey and a formidable presence it was! Mama Tey was a large - at least 300 lbs of large black woman. Even sitting she dominated the room. Her age could not be ascertained as she had no wrinkles and all of her hair was covered in a great wrap of fabric in shades of blue and green. The green matched her long, loose dress with short sleeves. Many bracelets were on her arms, and rings on all her fingers, hoop earrings in her ears, and a pair of old, gold rimmed glasses sat on her nose with a delicate chain attached, going around her neck.

Madame sallied forth from the doorway as if she were about to launch a campaign, political or military and greeted Mama Tey. She noted that Mama's expression was rather stoic and she was as brown as the room - even the whites of her eyes, which Madame Tibaldi could now see were rather bleary, were rather off-white. Perhaps it was the effect of the largest cigar Madame had ever seen which was now clenched in the teeth of Mama Tey, smoke from it flowing up to the cloud in the ceiling. Madame considered for a moment that the cigar seemed to be the primary source of the cloud before turning her focus back to Mama Tey herself.

"Welcome. Be seated," was all the invitation Madame received.

Mama Tey gazed at her deeply, set the cigar down and then began to chant, closing her eyes and rocking slightly. Suddenly she opened her eyes wide and drew in a long, loud deep breath! Then with more chanting, some in English, some sounding French, and some completely unintelligible, she worked about the table - never rising from her chair, but she laid out a cloth and oiled, marked and lit candles, more incense, constantly moving her hands and the finally she grabbed a black velvet bag from which she dumped some small bones and spread them around. Finally she cried out "Papa La!" and fell back in her chair as if in a faint.

Madame Tibaldi sat stock still, clutching her purse on her lap. She expected someone to come. No one came. She blinked. She quietly coughed. She glanced left and right and finally turned about in her chair. Still, no one came. Mama Tey looked less than alive. Madame rose from her chair and moved tentatively towards the table. Mama Tey did not move. Madame moved gingerly around the table, half expecting Mama Tey to jump up suddenly and shout "boo!" or some such silly thing, but no, nothing. Madame leaned in closer, wishing she had a mirror to check Mama Tey's breathing. Then she noticed an eye, just one was looking at her. Then Mama smiled a big broad smile revealing some gold rimmed teeth and she began to laugh, a great hearty laugh from the belly, a genuine laugh, nothing put on and Madame straightened up and did the same, although she really was not certain why she was laughing or for that matter, why she was even in the house!

Mama opened her other eye, wiped them both and her glasses and revealed that she had been waiting a long time for Madame to visit - what had taken so long? She had expected her weeks ago, as the spirits had alerted her. Madame Tibaldi explained all - that she had not planned on coming to New Orleans, she was suppose to be on a book tour in the Northeast, and she told of the handsome captain she had wronged, and became somewhat sidetracked with her tail of the shrimp boat and the party and the amorous armoire and beignets too.

Mama Tey explained that she was a Voodoo priestess - as if that was not apparent, and her usual clients were people who knew nothing of the spirits, so she always put on a show because as she said, if they came in the house and she told them what they wanted to know right off they wouldn't believe it. Sometimes she thought the show mattered more than the answers. Madame considered her own career and agreed. While she didn't intentionally put on a show, at least not in her mind, her most satisfied customers did seem to be the ones that required the most effort and methods, whereas the ones who got their answers right away sometimes appeared a bit let down. She would have to think more on this.

Mama Tey was still talking and showing the bag of little bones - chicken bones it turned out to Madame. She would sell her a bag for just $2 - regularly $5. They were just for show, for some reason people kept asking her about bones so she got some. They were such a hit she now made her own - boiling the chicken down in the kitchen - it made a soup for the children and no those little ones out there were not hers! They came from around the neighborhood and hung out at her house because they knew they could get some good food there. She could not turn away a hungry mouth and they in turned helped to bring in clients. A couple of girls made the velvet bags. She had lots of other things for sale too - mojo bags, oils, candles, voodoo dolls, bath salts and so on. Madame and Mama got on so well, they had lunch and talked and talked and talked. They talked so much Madame almost forgot to find out what the answer was that Mama had for her even though Madame had not asked a question.

"Oh! You need to go to Boston. Your answer is there," said Mama over a bowl of gumbo.

"But what was my question?" asked Madame who really wasn't sure, after all, it could be a couple of things and oh Mama was a wonderful cook!

"How to make up to the Captain for the terrible thing you did." replied Mama as she gave Madame Tibaldi more coffee. "Before you go to Boston though you must promise to return for the Dead of Winter Ball, tickets are only $10 for you and a guest."

"It was terrible, that's true," said Madame who really did feel bad about it as she added sugar to her coffee, "but a ball sounds like fun."

"The ball is a blast for the living and the dead, I promise you will have a great time - lots of people in the business will be there. But yes, what you did to the Captain was rude if you ask me," Mama said. She didn't want to be critical, but to throw a spirit out of his own home that he built himself when he wasn't doing anything all that bad really was just rude.

Madame agreed. To Boston she would go. After one more piece of cake.


	9. Chapter 9

Madame Tibaldi was full of energy as she boarded the plane. New Orleans just oozed psychic energy of course and the anticipation of going home also made her feel so light as if she could practically fly home without a plane. As she settled in to her seat, she knew rest would be impossible. Her mind was racing as she did as she was told and fastened her seat belt. The pilot turned on to the runway, wiggled his flaps, the engines picked up and then with a bump the plane started forward, picking up speed until the ground was a blur and then that unmistakable feeling - they were airborne. The other passengers settled back but Madame did not notice as she was already fast asleep.

As the plane touched down in Boston, Madame awoke with a start, probably caused by the squeal of the wheels as they touched the runway. The landing was alright, but probably - hopefully!- not the pilot's best as it had a bit of a bounce to it. Madame half-muttered a comment about having nodded off for a moment. Those who had been seated near enough to have been serenaded by her snoring for the past hours tried to put a good face on it, smiling tightly as they gathered their belongings from over head and exited the plane quickly. Madame Tibaldi had no time to notice, she was home and the urge to be in her home now drove her - she hadn't really missed it that much until she was here, so close and yet, still with a few miles to go.

The taxi cab fairly flew along as traffic was unusually light and soon Madame Tibaldi was deep in the familiar streets of the oldest parts of town. The driver pulled up in front of a bakery in the North End and let Madame and her luggage out. She paid the cabbie as a man and some boys came out of the bakery and greeted her warmly, sweeping her and her luggage into the bakery with them, much like a tide at the shore. The smells of the bread and cakes and other goodies baking away was like a warm blanket of comfort that went right to Madame's bones and she felt she was truly home again. But she needed to be in her own home, which was above the bakery, to stretch, relax, and remove the feel of travel from herself. So to the little service elevator at the back of the bakery she went. The elevator was as old as the building and creaked and groaned aplenty as it worked to take her up two stories. No matter how many times she rode it, she always found herself watching the cables and the bricks going by, for it was one of those old cage types that let you see everything around you. The boys, each with a piece of luggage had come along. A skeleton key opened her flat. The boys piled her belongings in and vanished - they knew that sooner or later she would reward them for their help.

Madame dropped her purse, kicked off her shoes, shucked out of her coat and plopped - there is no other word for it, on her very comfy, overstuffed couch. Her flat was actually 2 floors and the roof where she had a bit of a patio and some flowers, some herbs and tomatoes. The bakery and building had been in her family for about four generations - but she was the last of her immediate family and while she loved to cook - that was the reason for the tomatoes - she was a bit dreadful at baking. There was nothing else to say. Yeast died when she looked at it. She always guessed wrong as to whether she was about to toss in salt or sugar. (Yes, she could have labeled the canisters, but she just never bothered because, she reasoned, if she got the sugar and salt right, she would have some other disaster and she was right!)

Madame Tibaldi still owned the building and the bakery - but she left the baking and the running of the business to Aldo Francioni a second-generation Italian-American who had practically grown up there. His father, Frankie Francioni had been her father's right hand man for decades. The arrangement worked well. Aldo and his family lived next door above a deli in a building that Madame also owned having inherited it from her uncle, which combined with the bakery building made her a well propertied woman. No one would ever guess it to look at her and she wasn't one to discuss such things, so we'll just leave it there.

Because she lived in the home she was raised in and her father before her, and because she firmly believed that if something wasn't broke you did not fix it, her home was a virtual museum. Because she was a bit of a pack rat who collected things but generally never threw anything out except on occasion when something broke, her home was a bit cluttered. Because as a medium she met all sorts of interesting people who often paid in goods rather than cash, her home could be described as a bit eccentric in overall style. Even as she rested, she was contemplating the perfect place for a velvet bag of chicken bones.

The next day dawned bright and clear - not a cloud in the sky. The perfect day for Madame's mission - to find her Answer! To be honest, she was feeling a wee bit apprehensive - she knew Boston like the back of her hand, if the answer was here, surely she would have known that when she left Schooner Bay?

While she was gone, Aldo's kids had faithfully delivered her mail to her massive "catch all" table. Among the envelopes large and small, was one clearly marked from Schooner Bay, but somehow Madame just kept missing it as she dug though all the letters, cards and boxes - a couple should have been opened as they contained cakes and other once edible items. Food beyond saving was one thing Madame would throw out. But as she sorted the mail somehow she kept missing that oh so important one from Schooner Bay.

But now she was off. Her unpacking only half done, and mail organizing abandoned, she was off to find the answer, or Answer as she thought of it. She would start by walking and so had on sensible shoes, hat, comfortable dress, her purse on her arm. Down the elevator she went right into the bakery and full stop! Fresh coffee and pastry must come first. Fortified, she set off in earnest.

Her plan was simple. She lived in the oldest part of Boston so she would begin there. She considered searching every street and alley, but decided against it. It was not a dignified way for a medium to search. Now if you ask me, I would have said it was a perfectly sensible thing to do and she was just being a lazy bones - but she didn't ask me, so I probably shouldn't have put my two cents in. Just forget I said anything. Really.

Plan B! was to walk about and let the spirits be her guide. Straight out of the bakery the spirits guided her to the antique store across the street, followed by a pawn shop, a jewelry store, a millinery, a chocolate shop, a book store, a second book store, another antique store before finally ending up at the Old North Church. Yes, the famous church that let Paul Revere know what was up with the British.

Madame Tibaldi took a short break in the shade of the church while gathering her thoughts and hoping for a bit of guidance. She felt drawn down another street and there it was! A tavern with great baked beans and Boston Creme Pie. She had to stop in. The pie was sublime and Madame Tibaldi felt a desperate need for a nap. With a great amount of will and in spite of a great protest from her sleepy brain, she pressed on. Once outside, the bright sun helped with revive her a bit and she was on the move. She stopped to get her bearings - she was still in the older part of town but on a street she rarely traveled. As her gaze wandered upwards while she tried to straighten out her thoughts her eyes settled on the street sign above her. It pointed to an alley - Anne Searce Alley. She found the name interesting and then turned in the opposite direction.


	10. Chapter 10

While Madame Tibaldi has a conversation with herself let us check in on Schooner Bay -

Just as in Boston, the weather in Schooner Bay was brilliant and perfect, the kind of weather that makes it almost impossible to be in a bad frame of mind. As the weather went, so did the day. Jonathan and Candy were in school, Martha was in the kitchen, Mrs. Muir was at the bank depositing not one, not two, but five checks from various articles she had submitted recently. She had begun to doubt any of her work had been accepted when the good news and checks came all at once. This was not only good news but timely as the car needed a new set of tires. The checks would pay the bills, buy the tires and have some left over besides.

As for the Captain, he had had a busy morning as well. He had checked the weather, updated his charts, rescued a kitten and returned it to its mother and managed to meet Mrs Muir by then gate when she returned from town with a bucket of lobsters for her to give to Martha. It would be so much easier if Martha knew about him, but he didn't know how she would take it. Faint, probably.

For Mrs. Muir, the day and her mood were both too good to waste at her typewriter. She was working on two more articles but they could wait a bit - the beach was calling her to come and have a walk. She could not say no. As soon as she had dropped off the lobsters and promised to be back for lunch and quickly changed clothes she was off.

Walking with Mrs. Muir was one of Captain Gregg's favorite things and so when he spotted her crossing the road, he left his station on the widow's walk and followed. Shortly they were walking side by side in companionable silence, broken now and again by a few small words as just being together was enough.

Mrs. Muir, Carolyn when he allowed himself was beautiful even at the worst of times. This was no exaggeration, just a simple undeniable fact. Now here, with the wind playing with her hair and the sun adding its glow, her beauty was stunning. When she looked at him, as she did with those green eyes and that smile, oh he felt as if his heart was melting in his chest. Or it would have if he had a heart and wasn't a ghost. That was a silly thought, real men don't melt - or at least he never did when he was alive. He should never have read that Barbara Cartland novel Martha had. No, feeling melty inside was definitely for women, oh pull yourself together man! It would help so much if she didn't look at him like that and yet he knew he never wanted her to stop.

For Mrs. Muir, every time the Captain looked at her, she found herself blushing like a school girl. It did not help that the sun had set a brilliant burnish on the curls on his head - how exactly that worked - sunshine on a ghost she did not know, he also cast a shadow on the sand and that didn't really seem physically possible but now was not the time to ponder all that. He was there with her and seemingly as real and solid as any living man and yet they could not even touch. If only he wasn't looking so, so, blasted magnificent this morning! Keeping her eyes off of him was nearly impossible and every time she looked at him, he would seem to be a bit flustered. At least the feeling was mutual, even if words were never spoken because what can you say when you're in love with a ghost?

Then as they found themselves near a favorite spot to rest - some shade from a tree and a large rock to sit on, he reached into his pocket. Mrs. Muir had been admiring some circling gulls when the flash of color from the cloth in his hand caught her eye. Silk, richly colored, it reminded her of a something she had seen - a sari? she had seen once on an elderly lady from India. He was reaching towards her with it and she took it, something was wrapped in it.

He cleared his throat, started to speak, then started again, "Mrs., ... Carolyn." His voice was low and soft as happened whenever his emotions - his more tender emotions were near the surface. He tugged his ear. "I just thought, well, unwrap it won't you?"

He had called her Carolyn. Did he know her heart stopped when he did that in that voice? She was staring at his face. Breathe. Unwrap. She pulled on the silk and it came away revealing a whale's tooth with an exquisite scrimshaw of not a ship but Gull Cottage.

"I started this years ago, when I had just finished the house and moved in," Captain Gregg explained, "but somehow I was never able to finish it... until now. And, that is to say, well you see you seemed to truly appreciate scrimshaw so, I thought, perhaps you would like it?"

Carolyn could not take her eyes off the scrimshaw for there was Gull Cottage perfectly etched, and on the front steps, in front of the bottom step towards the right was a tiny Scruffy. Behind him Jonathan and Candy and on the step behind them, Martha and at the top on the porch to the left was the Captain himself with Mrs. Muir. She was in front of him, actually she was leaning against him and as she looked she saw that his arm was around her waist and she was resting one had on his. A perfect portrait of a family at their home.

"Oh, Daniel" she breathed. Did she know that the sound of her speaking his name, almost a whisper like that, did she know what that did to him? There came that melty feeling again. Good thing he was a ghost or else his heart might have stopped right there and then. He had been unsure if he should give it to her, he hadn't even really intended to make it like that, but he was rummaging in the attic and found it and started fiddling with it and it just came out that way. He hoped she would see it as he did - an expression of the reality that she and her family made his house a true home for all of them. He hoped she would like it, he hoped, oh no she was looking at him and there were definite signs of tears threatening to fall - he could handle anything but a woman's tears!

Carolyn was overwhelmed in a good way, but the feelings that now gripped her were just so strong. She could feel the tears - happy ones welling her eyes and as she looked up at the Captain, she could see that look of - not fear exactly, but a certain anxiousness on his face. He never could stand to see her cry, she knew that and did her best to hold on, but it took all she had to keep the tears in check. Its just that the scrimshaw was so sweet and that he had made it himself - as she thought about it she found another wave of emotion threatening to wash over her.

"This is the most wonderful gift anyone has ever given me," she finally managed, clearly deeply moved. Then she smiled. Smiles worked well on the Captain and he felt instant relief. He perked up immediately, tugging his ear, adjusting his collar, straightening his jacket. The scrimshaw was a success, Carolyn's smile was brighter and warmer than the sun to him. They walked back to Gull Cottage - Martha would have Mrs. Muir's lunch ready soon. If only the scrimshaw scene could be how things really were they both thought although neither said a word.


	11. Chapter 11

Meanwhile, back in Boston...

When we left Madame Tibaldi she was in the right place but facing the wrong way and feeling definitely perplexed. She was positive that the alley had never been there before. She turned around to take another look. Each building on either side of the alley was old, with stone work on the front ground level and dark red brick above. The stone was worn with age and stained from years of city grime. Between the two was the alley, paved with bricks, and each of the buildings had brick sides - though of a lesser quality that what had been used on the fronts. Looking down the alley, Madame could see clearly all the way to the other end. She stepped across the street to contemplate the alley from a different angle. The alley definitely appeared old. The alley definitely had not been there before. She squared her shoulders and stepped decisively back across the street and then into the alley.

Suddenly! nothing happened. The alley appeared to be just an alley, not an inter-dimensional gateway, or a portal to another time and place. Madame checked her feet and looked forward and back, she even stepped back out of the alley and then back in. With a small shake of her head, she started down the alley. Suddenly! still nothing happened, but she stopped and looked back anyway, just to check. Everything was perfectly fine. Now, Madame was not exactly hoping that something would happen yet at the same time, honestly, having nothing at all happen was a bit of a let down. Madame trudged on.

Being a city girl, Madame Tibaldi did not need to be told how far a block was. The alley should be one block long. She could see both ends yet, she knew instinctively that when she appeared to be in the middle of the alley, she had already walked at least a block. Now dear readers this would not make me happy as I never walk further than needed but it gladdened Madame's heart because it was proof positive that this was no ordinary alley! That meant of course that she had not just forgotten about the alley, it very possibly had not been there before and that made her happy - no matter how far she had to walk. Knowing she was right put a bit of a spring in her step and picked up her pace.

The alley had been a monotonous tunnel of bricks, bricks to the left, the right and the ground, with really nothing to break up the view. After a few more minutes of walking, finally, the alley changed. Madame had been ready to give up hope! She had reached a point in the alley where it became wider. The wall on the right angled back a couple of feet and then continued that way for several yards before angling back to its original line. The wall on the left was different. At the ground level it too angled back a couple of feet, but from the second floor on up, it remained on the original line. This created an overhang of the ground floor which protected it from the weather and that was a good thing because here was a door, a sign and a window.

The door, the sign and all the wood trim was black. The door had a large well polished brass knocker, shaped like a cat's head with the knocker hanging from its mouth. The window had twelve panes of antique glass - Madame could see the ripples and some tiny bubbles in each one. They all seemed to match however as if they all were the same age. As for the sign, it was long and fastened to the brick wall between the door and the window. The gold lettering was aged - some of the gold had flaked off, but it was still quite legible and in good overall repair. It gave a bit of information about the shop -

 _Est. 1643_

 _Re - Est. 1764_

 _Vitals & Curiosities_

 _Messrs. Brewster, Brewster,_

 _Crackstone & Brewster, proprietors._

 _Purveyors of the finest gifts,_

 _sundries, & essentials for_

 _the most discerning patrons._

 _By appointment only._

Oh. Perhaps this is not the place after all? Madame Tibaldi tried looking in the window, but the antique glass, in addition to being quite lovely, also made it impossible to get a good look inside - she could see lights and shadows, but nothing clearly. Looking again at the front of the building, there was no door bell to ring, no bell outside to ring, only the door handle and door knocker to use. She tried the door handle. Locked. So, she reached for the door knocker. Did you guess that the door suddenly opened? Yes? If so you were wrong. Madame knocked and knocked and knocked, until even her rather impressive patience was wearing thin.

Just as she was about to give up - because it always happens that way, doesn't it? The door did not open. However, as if out of nowhere a very tall and elegant gentleman appeared behind her. His clothes seemed a bit old fashioned and quite formal from his top hat down to his spats. He had a black tail coat and a beautiful sapphire blue silk cravat with a large stick pin featuring a pearl with two small red stones - rubies? at the bottom of the pearl and then what Madame was certain was a diamond all framed in gold. His waistcoat was ivory colored silk. Edwardian? Older? Madame could not tell. She also noted a gold signet ring on his pinkie and a gold watch chain with a fob in the pocket of his waistcoat. He had an ivory handled cane, and the toes of his black shoes that were peeking from under his dove grey spats were impeccably polished.

He doffed his hat, revealing a head full of hair, greying at the sides, combed straight back. His left eyebrow was capable of an impressive arch, his blue-grey eyes were piercing and she noticed, twinkled - thank goodness for the twinkle or else he might have been more than a bit intimidating. Beneath his long nose was a thin mustache, a "Ronald Coleman" something in her head said. The generous mouth smiled revealing nice white teeth over a rather sensuous lower lip. A firm chin marked the end of the all together handsome face.


	12. Chapter 12

Meanwhile, back in Schooner Bay...

Candy and Jonathan were out front of the cottage having a game of catch. Both had good throwing arms, and good hands for catching, so even as they were a couple of years apart in age, it was a pretty even match. Scruffy worked hard to help both of them equally and seemed to be having the best time of all. On the porch, the Captain was standing, hands behind his back as if he were on a ship's deck, taking in the scene, laughing at Scruffy's antics as the little dog managed to catch the ball, causing Jonathan and Candy to collide, ending in a heap as each had tried to catch Scruffy - and missed.

In victory, Scruffy leaped onto the porch with his well slathered trophy firmly in his jaws. He turned to face the children and sat, triumphant at the feet of the Captain who praised him with a, "Well done Scruffy!" before grabbing the ball and tossing it to Candy to restart the game.

When she cried out with a loud, "YUCK!" he realized he probably should have wiped the rather spitty ball down. Oh well, Candy was no shrinking violet, she could handle it. Now whether or not she particularly wanted to handle it was entirely another matter! Smiling he sent Scruffy back into the fray as a tune from Candy's transistor radio caught his ear.

"Galveston, oh Galveston..." a young man's voice sang from the tiny box. Captain Gregg moved closer to the radio, listening to the haunting melody that took him back to a time long ago and his face settled into a quiet, if intent expression as he took in the lyrics. The words painted a picture of the sea and shore, wind and birds and love and war, almost as if they had been written about him.

So intense was his concentration, Mrs. Muir was able to approach, unnoticed. She waited for the song to finish before speaking. "A beautiful song isn't it?" she asked. The Captain was somewhat startled - normally he always knew when Mrs. Muir was near, but she had caught him off guard with his thoughts far away in space and time.

"The singer is Glen Campbell, he's an incredibly talented young man, musician, singer, I saw him on tv the other night and I understand he's going to do a movie with John Wayne," Mrs. Muir reported, as if she had learned the details for a newspaper article.

"John Wayne?" asked the Captain, his mind still on the song but clearly Mrs. Muir had some expectation that he would know of John Wayne even if he did not know Glen Campbell.

"He's a famous movie actor, usually does westerns or war movies. He just had a hit called True Grit - Glen Campbell was in it."

Captain Gregg nodded as a sign of understanding, while his face showed his thoughts were still elsewhere. Mrs. Muir was distracted by the children, who were now playing a game where one would jump off the wall and attempt to catch the ball in mid-air as the other threw it. The kind of game with a bit of arm breaking potential, or as she watched Jonathan almost flatten the fearless Scruffy, dog damaging potential. Mrs. Muir called to them, intending to tell them to find something less deadly to do when Martha emerged from the house to call the children in for snack time. Small - so as not to hurt their appetite - ice cream sundaes were a definite possibility!

After the children and Scruffy followed Martha in - Scruffy was no fool, he knew when and where he might find some tasty rewards! Mrs. Muir and the Captain settled down on the steps for a few quiet moments together. Finally, the Captain spoke.

"I went to Galveston, once, long ago," he said, wistfully.

"Oh? When was that," replied Mrs. Muir, hoping for an interesting story - she found most of his stories to be interesting, truth be told.

As she asked, he began his tale. "It was early April in '47, we were on the way to the Battle of Veracruz - we had put Figg off and we were making good time when a storm blew up. the Atlantic can be, difficult, sometimes. We turned for the calmer waters of the Gulf and crossed with another American Navy ship. Their captain was a well seasoned man with a good head, and brave - not like that blasted Figg! in fact he had served with distinction in the War of 1812. He gave us the once over - satisfying himself that our junior officers were of such quality that our captain was not needed. Our ship was newer, smaller and faster that his great ship with its heavy cannon. He was concerned that we would not have enough troops to do a proper landing if it came to that - to be honest, we were all going to Veracruz without any great plan other than to gather first and plan later. He had heard - but had no confirmation, that there were Marines at Galveston. He did not feel he could take the time to sail across the Gulf on a slim possibility, but as we were faster and our presence was not needed to form a plan in Veracruz, he gave us the job of finding the Marines, if there were any Marines, and then bringing them with us to Veracruz."

"So you sailed for Galveston then?"

"Sailed? We veritably flew! We knew there would be a battle of some sort at Veracruz, or at least we were hoping for one - a ship of young men, our first chance to prove ourselves, we were trained, but a bit reckless and oh so eager - we were determined not to miss the battle which would have brought eternal shame to us all. We turned for Galveston with ever bit of sail we could find. Fortune was with us as we crossed the Gulf in record time. Thank God the Atlantic storm had not followed us in!" The Captain's eyes were lit with an inner fire as he recalled those heady days.

"We made port at Galveston and soon every man jack was crawling the docks and town looking for any sign of the Marines." His face with split with a grin as the memory played across his mind, and then, suddenly a calmness came over him and he said, "and then, I saw her. Maria. For me, time stopped at that moment." Mrs. Muir tried, she really, really tried not to roll her eyes. She failed, but she did try, really, truly she did, but sometimes she wondered how any other man of his time managed to get a girl with the Captain around!

"So what happened next?"

"Oh, Maria - she had the darkest eyes I ever saw, it was like trying to fathom the depths of the Black Sea - endless pools..."

"Yes, imagine that. Go on..."

"Her skin was golden, sun kissed, her lips were so red, the color of fine rubies, her hair..."

As the Captain continued describing the beauty of Maria, Mrs. Muir studied the sunlight on a spiders web extending down from the porch rafters. She knew all too well when he got like this he could go on for quite a while. She wasn't jealous, not exactly as that would be silly, and she did want to hear the story, it was just that she did not need to hear so much about the various beauties in his past.

"So, how did you meet her?" She asked thinking it would at least get him to stop going on and on about her perfection.

"She was down by the docks. She had a little table under a shade and she sold tamales."

"Tamales?"

"They are a traditional Mexican food - corn husks stuffed with some meat and something - it was the only time I ever had them and I wasn't really paying attention."

"I can imagine," Mrs. Muir replied. In her mind, her eyes rolled. But only in her mind.

"I was very young, just a midshipman. Although not a complete innocent by any means, and had escorted plenty of pretty girls and met some beautiful ones, Maria was the first truly natural beauty I had met. No corsets, for example." He wanted Mrs. Muir to understand, but somehow the right words were not there. How could he explain immediate, deep and lasting feelings for a tamale girl he only met once? He could not and realizing it, he retreated from the topic and continued with his story.

"Maria explained why we had not found the Marines - they had gone to the other end of the island to drill. We boarded our ship, and managed to get out of the harbor -not so easy a task when the tide and winds are not in your favor. We sailed along the coast until we found them. They wanted to go back to their barracks, but we explained there was no time and told them all the gear they would need would be waiting. It wasn't exactly a lie of course, its just that we had no idea what supplies we would find at Veracruz, or the plan of action, or for that matter at that point, we didn't even know for certain who would be in charge. But we sailed off anyway, making for the Atlantic, praying the storm had run out, and then bearing starboard down the Mexican coast to what we hoped would be great glory. We were there for oh, 10 days, mostly it was hot, we lay siege to the port, and then attacked and took it. At night, the dark sky above would take my thoughts back to Maria and away from the random shots fired or the terrible silent waiting. Always meant to go back and see her, never did of course." He looked over at Mrs Muir, but she said nothing.

"The song you see brought it all back. Galveston is beautiful like the song, but there is also war in the song and longing, and it just took me back. Odd how a song of today could trigger thoughts of so long ago." With that the Captain got up and straightened his jacket. Mrs. Muir was lost now in her own thoughts, imagining the Captain as a young midshipman, apparently moon eyed over a girl, a woman he never even really got to know.

"Madam, what are you thinking?"

"I am thinking of you as a beardless youth."

"Ah. Do not waste your time then. I've had a beard since I was 15, although I have to admit it wasn't much more than the fine hairs of a peach - soft and downy then... But still a beard!" He declared and left her to go above for a turn about the widow's walk.

"Soft and downy?" thought Mrs. Muir. Oh. And so young and in a battle so far from home. She walked out to the little road that ran in front of the cottage and gazed out over the bay. Far, far away on the other side of the world really were other young men in battles, the ones that inspired the song. She hoped that things would change before Jonathan was old enough to join them. She went to the house in search of coffee and hoping to find some ice cream. The song would never be quite the same to her again.


	13. Chapter 13

Meanwhile, back in the alley where we last left Madame Tibaldi (and yes, Dear Readers, an alley is no place to leave a lady hanging about!)

"Aha! Madame Tibaldi," said the man with a smile, "how nice to meet you, Absalom Brewster at your service," he finished with a bow.

Madame thought to herself, "how lovely, such manners and he even knows my name!" On a second take, Madame thought, "he knows my name..." and on her third thought it became, "he knows my name!?"

"Why of course I know your name, after all, you have an appointment and who else would you be?" there was that smile and an eyebrow arch and oh, yes he practically oozed charm.

Madame was unaware that she had spoken out loud because she actually hadn't, and now was surprised to discover she was there in time for the appointment she had not made. She was certain she has not made an appointment because it was impossible as she had never heard of this place before.

"My appointment?"

"Yes, your appointment, that's why I'm out here to greet you."

"Oh, I see."

"Here it is, your appointment card." He pulled a card from a pocket. There was all the information, Madame Olivia Tibaldi... so on and so forth written in a lovely hand, Copperplate if she had to guess with a fountain pen.

She stared at the card in her hand, all the while being guided without notice to the shop door. If she had watched Mr. Brewster's hands instead of his face, she would have seen him reach for the door and the door open before he actually touched it. But she didn't see that. Those twinkling eyes - thank goodness for those twinkling eyes because this man could look a bit sinister without them, those eyes held her attention and kept her from feeling any of the hesitations a sensible person might feel under the circumstances. Without giving it a thought, she entered the shop. The door closed behind her as if it did such things all by itself. Again, our dear Madame did not notice!


	14. Chapter 14

Apologies for the delay, and now on with the story!

Madame Tibaldi felt the uneven tread of the single well worn step under foot as she entered a large, cluttered room. The marble step was so worn in fact that she nearly lost her balance. That she was looking everywhere except where she was stepping was also partly to blame – yet perfectly understandable for the room, oh the room! The wondrous room! Everywhere Madame looked there was something that caught her eye and fired her curiosity. To describe it all will not be easy, but here goes -

The floor – what could be seen of it - was made of white marble tiles that matched the worn step. The center of the room was dominated by an open square of display cases with curved glass tops – the type of cases seen in confectioners shops, but these did not contain candies. Instead they were filled with small bottles, jars, boxes and tins of ointments, oils, tinctures, other fluids and powders. Some of the items were common things, such as Sweet Oil, and some a bit more uncommon, Deadly Nightshade for example, and some, well some must be some sort of gag gift Madame thought – Eye of Newt!? then, gazing about the place Madame had some second thoughts about the gag gift conclusion.

Around the outside of the room on three sides were assorted glass front cases with books and things. Along the fourth wall was a lab setup that could only be imagined by a mad scientist. Something was brewing and bubbling along, but what? Madame could not even begin to guess. As Madame made her way around the room, taking in all the sights at the invitation of Mr. Brewster, her mind began to process the space she was observing more clearly. The woodwork was black throughout. The general feel was Victorian, and yet also older. When she looked up to see the ceiling, instead she saw a skylight several stories up. The floors above were as if in a library with books, books and more books lining the walls. A spiral staircase was in one corner. A more standard type began on the ground floor to the left of the entrance, she had almost missed it because of the cabinetry built into it. Crosswalks cut through the air on the floors above so one did not have to run all the way around to get where they needed to go. It was altogether marvelous.

Looking about, she backed into the largest crystal ball she had ever seen – a full yard across. No harm done – it weighed far too much for Madame to move it even a tiny amount. As she gazed into the enormous crystal, wondering what might be revealed to her, she found other eyes gazing back! Stepping back a bit, she looked around the ball to see her host and another man, and another and finally another. Remembering the sign outside the store she surmised that here were the other Brewsters and Mr. Crackstone – but who was who?

Her Mr. Brewster – oh listen, yes she already was thinking of him as her Mr. Brewster – Absalom, handled the introductions. His elegant self was matched by the first man next to him – almost as tall, just as elegantly attired with a head of dark, wavy hair, slightly receding hairline – a touch of gray at the temples, a most distinguished profile with a Roman nose and thin mustache, dressed much like Mr. Brewster with a matching stickpin, but his cravat and waistcoat were both black, giving him a somewhat more severe appearance than her Mr. Brewster. Still, the charm was the same when he said, "how do you do."

Her Mr. Brewster introduced him as his brother – as if she couldn't guess – he was Mr. Zachariah Brewster. A pair of somewhat watery eyes belonged to their uncle – a bit stooped at the shoulders, white hair, his clothes also dark, somehow older and less elegant, this was Mr. Obadiah Brewster. He did not say much, but made companionable if absent minded sounds and turned to go about his business,, which is to say, he went to a well worn comfy chair and sank into it. In mere moments a rumbly snoring sound could be heard.

The last man was much shorter, and best described as round. Two large, sad round eyes peered from his round little face, his body seemed round as well, even though he did not appear fat – he just had rounded shoulders and a tubby round tummy but otherwise was not heavy. Absalom introduced him as Mr. Bartholomew Crackstone. His suit was black, he wore a black tie instead of a cravat, and had no waistcoat. He said "Hello" in a soft voice before shuffling off through a dark curtain at the back of the room. This left Madame with the two Brewster brothers, their twinkling eyes and expectant looks. They apparently knew why she was there, even if it still wasn't all that clear to Madame herself.


	15. Chapter 15

The rather elegant Brewster Brothers – Absalom and Zachariah led Madame to the dark curtain at the back of their establishment where Mr. Crackstone had gone moments before. She wondered what could be on the other side – and let me tell you dear readers, she was certainly not expecting a very large, silver, Russian samovar. It was nearly three feet tall, stamped with all sorts of impressive seals, marked with what appeared to be the Russian Imperial coat of arms and dated 1825. Clearly well used, it sat on a very low table and made a little noise now and again. So Madame thought that she might be in for a Russian tea until she spotted Mr. Crackstone heading towards a table with a couple of tea cake stands loaded with all sorts of delights, and her eye spied the distinctive English traditional checkerboard of Battenberg cake peeping out from its marzipan cover.

"English tea then, that must be it" thought Madame and well yes, that would have been a good guess. Wrong, but a good guess nonetheless. As if he could read her mind, Absalom said, "do have tea with us Madame, we like to think of it as our own special Brewster Tea."

"Brewster Tea," muttered Mr. Crackstone so low no one heard him, or rather Madame did not hear him and neither of the present Brewsters cared. "I'd like to see a Brewster able to make tea," Mr. Crackstone continued. Again, unheard or ignored as he puttered about laying on a wonderful tea. An assortment of finger sandwiches on a variety of breads, scones with clotted cream and several different jams, cookies, more cakes in addition to the slices of Battenberg, tarts, and a few bits that might have looked more at home on a Italian antipasto platter made the Brewster Tea more of a real meal, how could anyone eat all of this and still have room for dinner?

The brothers invited her to sit and Mr. Crackstone joined them. Madame realized though that one Brewster, old Obadiah had been left sleeping in the other room, apparently forgotten! She was about to say something when Zachariah spoke up, almost as if he could read her mind- this is starting to seem a habit with these two – and assured Madame that Obadiah did not do tea. He looked a bit embarrassed, but only for a moment.

"Oh?" was all Madame said, as her attention was taken by Mr. Crackstone offering her a selection of teas from a large tea and clearly quite old tea chest. Absalom was saying something about Obadiah considering tea to be un-American and would not drink it, Mr. Crackstone said, "coffee" as much to himself as anyone else and excused himself, leaving Madame to ponder the teas. The brothers came to her rescue, recommending their personal favorites – they each had a different one, but then they both stared at her intently before recommending one choice together that they felt would suit her best. Zachariah did the honors of fixing it for Madame while Absalom began offering the sandwiches.

Mr. Crackstone moved past them, muttering again, unheard and ignored as he went through the curtain and out to Obadiah with a full cup of steaming hot, black coffee and a plate with a large danish. He returned after a few moments, appeared someone surprised that Zachariah actually had managed to make some tea and settled in on the other side of the table.

Madame soon warmed up to the Brewsters, eccentric though they certainly were, but she had found that some people said the same about her! The seemed to know a great deal about a great deal, especially the history of Boston. Why they knew more about her city than she did – and that really was saying quite a lot. Mr. Crackstone on the other hand was quite, but when he did say something it was generally worth hearing. He seemed to be a jack of all trades as whenever anything needed to be done, he was the one who apparently did it.

What exactly the Brewsters did, Madame still wasn't sure.

After a little over an hour, Madame felt quite overstuffed for tea and would really have liked to find a place to take a nap, but although the eating was ending the conversation was still going and had finally gotten round to Schooner Bay and Madame's problem. Perhaps we should write that as, Madame's Problem. Yes, I think we should, because after all this time, it was a Problem with a most definite Capital P.

"So," Absalom was saying, "this man, the Captain is a ghost, yes?"

"You are certain of that, Madame, that he is a ghost and not some other form of spirit?" asked Zachariah.

"Oh yes, he's a ghost, yes, a very handsome one I must say," but then a doubt fluttered on Madame's mind and she ended with, "at least, I was positive he was a ghost when I met him." Now she frowned, something Madame rarely did as she was generally a rather happy person. Uncertainty was not something she experienced often, it could be such a bothersome thing to be uncertain and it never helped any situation. But now she realized that she only assumed the Captain was a standard ghost because Claymore Gregg had referred to him as a ghost – she had not bothered to actually ask the Captain when she had a chance, or do any deeper investigation into the matter. He had ghostly behavior, or in Clayton's view ghastly behavior, but either way...she was certain that he was of the spirit realm, that she could say and would say for certain, but was he a ghost? Hmmmm.

"Hmmm." Is what Madame thought and said. "Hmmm," is what both Brewsters thought and said. It was a good question Zachariah had asked, Absalom wished he had asked it himself it was such a good question. In fact Zachariah felt a bit pleased with himself – it showed in the suggestion of a smile on his face because it was such a good question, before his smile turned into a frown because Madame could not answer it definitively, leaving them in a bit of a quandary. Without knowing the exact nature of the Captain's current state, there was no way to determine the absolute best course to follow to fix the Problem. They would be guessing, just guessing. They were good at guessing but this was a very serious matter, very serious indeed!

Meanwhile, Mr. Crackstone, that little round man of action, sprung into action. Or rather, he got up and cleared away some of the dirty dishes, which took him to the far end of the room where there was another large, dark curtain. If Madame had explored deeper, or even just leaned a bit in her chair to peer in that direction she would have seen the curtain earlier as well as the rather amazing looking thing next to it. But when faced with tea and cakes, who can blame her for not giving even a fleeting glance in that direction?

"Oh Crackstone! You have saved the day again, oh what a splendid idea!" exclaimed Absalom. "Indeed!" joined Zachariah, looking at Madame, "anytime you need a solution, Crackstone is your man. Just watch!"

Madame watched. She also listened as Crackstone muttered and puttered. He opened the great curtain revealing a large, very large mirror in a gilded frame. The brothers both smiled as if now everything was quite obvious when all that was obvious to Madame was that there was a very large mirror on the wall. Meanwhile she could swear she heard Mr. Crackstone – she did not feel she could call him, or think of him as just"Crackstone", she did not know him that well after all – but she could hear him, now that he had her attention, talking to himself, about always being the one to fix things, find things, and figure things out which the Brewsters seemed to wallow in the credit just a bit too much. Brewster's Tea! Humph!

Now he had pulled the curtain back and moved off to the side, a large bookcase was blocking a bit of Madame's view but she suddenly heard a very distinctive humming noise – one she had never heard before, then a crackling sound, and that side of the room seemed to have an eerie light to it.

Crackstone then came back to the front of the room and went out past them, with an "excuse me, one moment," almost under his breathe. He came back with Obadiah's coffee cup – empty, and danish plate – nothing but crumbs left and took them to the back, picking up a couple of more plate's from the tea along the way. Clearly Crackstone did not like clutter. Then he went back to the task at hand, which involved pulling on ropes that ran off through pulleys and closed all the curtains on all the windows in the room. Then he opened them again as he forgot he needed a bit more light and went to some knobs on the wall and suddenly the gas lights along the walls came up. Then back to close the curtains. He then motioned to the Brewsters and Madame to move closer. They did.

"Isn't it marvelous?" asked Absalom? He was of course expecting Madame to say yes.

"Why, yes," replied Madame although she didn't really know quite why it was marvelous – it was a really big mirror, but the Brewsters seemed quite proud of it.

Mr. Crackstone spoke at length for the first time in Madame's presence. "Nostradamus had one – he let the Queen of France use it. Ours is larger and I have, made some modifications of my OWN design – he looked at the brothers as he put the emphasis on OWN – which I believe really enhances the capabilities. For instance, the use of this Tesla Coil here, indicating the apparently mechanical thing that hummed and gave off a glow.

Well dear readers I should say, if you could not see the Coil, only the light from it you might call it a glow. But when you could see the whole thing it was not a glow. It was some magical looking purple lightening flashing about crackling and gave off the glow.

Back to Crackstone - "Tesla Coils are very simple and yet very powerful at the same time. Tesla almost perfected it – but only almost. I have achieved what he did not – a perfect resonance capable of creating self-sustaining power and as such I have mastered the Electron Winds!" As he said this last, his voice rose to a dramatic finish. The Brewster Brothers rolled their eyes and tried not to yawn. Madame didn't know what to think, apparently, Mr. Crackstone was an excellent baker, cook and mad scientist as well. Who knew?

Absalom cleared his throat with an ahem, as Mr. Crackstone seemed to come back to his more silent self and Zachariah admired himself in the mirror. "You see Madame, with this mirror, we are able to see the past," Absalom began,

"and the future" Zachariah finished.

"but more," added Mr. Crackstone.

"Yes, but that's enough for now, I'm certain Madame has many questions. Why don't we find our subject and see what he is doing at present?" suggested Absalom and they all agreed. Mr. Crackstone made some adjustments to his Tesla Coil and then they all turned their attention to the mirror as the room grew darker.

At first all Madame could see in the mirror was herself and her companions. But as a user of crystal balls, she knew these things needed a little time and concentration – and she always liked to use an incantation as well, but the Brewsters did not seem like the incantation types. As for Crackstone – definitely not!

The drumming hum of the coil was the only sound in the room and it had a somewhat hypnotic effect. Soon the mirror seemed to glow and then, yes, there it was, Gull Cottage! The balcony of the Captains bedroom, and yes there at the telescope was Captain Daniel Gregg himself. He was not alone, for young Jonathan was there as well, standing on a chair to use the telescope.

"Alright lad, what do you see?" The Captain asked.

"Concentrating, Jonathan peered deep into the eye of the telescope and saw, "a schooner, its a schooner, 3 masts!" Jonathan exclaimed excitedly.

"Very good lad!, now what can you tell me about its position and can you see anything that might indicate a home?"

Jonathan looked again, the schooner was just passing the point – so that was 2 miles – nautical miles away, and it had a flag, an ensign, so hard to make out but suddenly the wind caught it just right and Jonathan could see for just a brief moment, a red maple leaf – Canada – the schooner was Canadian. He reported his findings to the delight of the Captain.

"Well done lad! You'll be the finest Captain in New England yet!" Captain Gregg declared. Jonathan grinned, enjoying the praise, even if he wasn't all that sure he wanted to be a captain – it seemed to be an awful lot of hard work and worse – math.

Math. Thinking of math made Jonathan think of school. Thinking of school made Jonathan think about after school – he played ball, and he was in the club and it was time for the annual Father Son Day. Again. Just like last year and the year before, when he didn't have a father to bring and just like last year and the year before, he'd have to ask Claymore. That always made someone ask if Claymore was seeing his mother. He didn't know why exactly, but he did not like the question even though the answer was certainly no. Thinking about all of this ate away the joy Jonathan had felt moments before. The Captain sensed the general sea change in his best first mate. If keeping track of the passage of time had been one of the Captain's many skills he might have guessed the cause, but it wasn't, so he didn't.

"Why the sudden long face lad?" He asked. Jonathan clearly did not want to answer, but he did anyway.

"Its the Father Son Day again." His sad little eyes met the Captain's. "I really don't want to go with Claymore again, I mean he's okay, but he's not my father and I can't go alone, really I would rather not go at all." He sat down on the chair. "I mean, well, maybe if you could go I would want to go, but I know you can't..." his voice trailed away. The situation was hopeless. The Captain was everything a lad could want in a Dad, or a lass for that matter – Jonathan knew his sister Candy thought as much of the Captain as he did and looked up to him as he did – as a Dad. If only he wasn't a ghost. Being dead was such a drag sometimes!

Captain Gregg felt for the boy. Jonathan was as much a son to him as he had become a dad to Jonathan. Here, at Gull Cottage his being a ghost really wasn't a problem. In fact, it meant that he could do some fun things with Jonathan that a regular living dad could not do, but when it came to going out that was an entirely different matter. To go out in public and be seen by all, well that was just not even possible.

"No lad, I can't. I'd give anything if I could, you know that, I hope," the Captain said and Jonathan nodded. It was true. He would give anything if he could be a real dad to Jonathan and Candy and – well, real also to Mrs. Muir, but thinking along those lines was always painful – he never felt more alive than when he was around Caroline and yet he was never more reminded of his state of deadness than when he was with her. Blast!


	16. Chapter 16

Captain Gregg had a feeling. An uncomfortable feeling, the sort of feeling that raised the hackles on his neck, the feeling he had when going about the back streets of a port town looking for missing shipmates. The distinct feeling of being watched. Most annoying and probably impossible. Nevertheless, Captain Gregg tugged at the neck of his shirt and rocked on his heels before pacing about on the balcony of the cottage. He did not like being watched, and did not like the feeling of being watched, especially as he did not see how it was possible. It put him in a bit of a dark mood.

Mrs. Muir, in a much more cheerful frame, entered the bedroom bearing daffodils, their sunny yellow blossoms a match for her humor of the moment. She saw the Captain pacing outside and could tell by the set of his shoulders he was not the happiest of ghosts.

"Captain?" She asked, stepping to the balcony.

"Oh Mrs. Muir," he replied, "flowers? for me? you really shouldn't have..."

"Don't worry Captain, I didn't, these are for the room," but she smiled as she knew he was teasing, and his mood seemed to lift a bit. She was glad. No one enjoyed being around the Captain when he was vexed.

Then his thoughts returned to whatever had him so preoccupied moments before. Mrs. Muir had turned back into the cabin and now was arranging the flowers on her desk. The Captain followed, watching her for a bit.

"Captain? Want to tell me what's on your mind?" She asked, glancing from the flowers to the Captain.

He thought for a moment and then answered her with a question, "Mrs. Muir, do you ever have the feeling you're being watched?"

Mrs. Muir, having arranged the last of the flowers stepped back to admire the effect before answering him, "only when you are invisible, Captain" and then with an angelic smile firmly fixed on her face she glided towards the door. She almost was out of the room when after a double-take the Captain let loose an indignant, "Mrs. Muir!" his eyebrows knitted in mock shock before he turned away, perhaps to keep the smile playing at the corners of his mouth hidden from her view.

* * *

Meanwhile, back in Boston, the brothers had retreated to a corner where they nibbled at leftovers from tea and played at playing a game of chess, but mostly they sat with their elegant heads bowed in deep thought of what to do next.

Crackstone was working, tidying up the place, while checking settings on various odd looking devices he had that popped and crackled and hummed with electricity. The Brewsters, all of them didn't seem to give a fig about electricity whereas one might have thought Crackstone invented the stuff.

As for Madame, she was perplexed. On the one hand, she had exorcised the Captain and therefore he was gone and this was not a good thing as she realized too late. On the other hand, what she saw in the mirror was Gull Cottage right now clearly occupied by the Captain who could not be there. At least, he could not be there if she did her job correctly. Had she make a mistake? Not a possibility she particularly wanted to consider, but she was after all a professional and so if there was a problem, if she did not deliver the goods, she had to figure out why.

She needed to think logically. For a woman who lived empathically going as the spirits took her, or whims, or winds or anything other than a well thought out plan, thinking logically did not come naturally. Still, she was aware that it had its uses and so, with great effort (especially considering the distraction of the Brewster Brothers endless grazing of teatime sweets), she began to review the events.

She had gone to Gull Cottage to meet Carolyn Muir, a very nice widow with two nice kids and a nice housekeeper and a nice dog. She met Claymore Gregg, a relation of the late Captain Daniel Gregg whose portrait was in Gull Cottage. Claymore was a very nice man with a problem. Captain Gregg would not leave Gull Cottage and Claymore alone. Could she help? Could she, Madame Tibaldi rid poor Claymore of the restless spirit of Captain Gregg? Without a moments hesitation (or any thought at all of consequences) Madame accepted the job assuring Claymore that the exorcism of the Captain would not be a problem. The Captain would be gone, never to bother Claymore or anyone else at Gull Cottage again and Claymore, normally a tightfisted man, paid well for relief from the burden of his lifetime. Madame had total confidence in her abilities to remove the Captain or else she would not have taken Claymore's money in advance. She took the job - and the pay because she thought she would be doing a good thing - freeing an unhappy spirit from the cottage so he would no longer plague good people and perhaps might even move on to find peace in the afterlife. What could have gone wrong?

Madame thought about what she had seen in the mirror. Clearly Jonathan wasn't feeling bothered by the Captain, quite the opposite- Jonathan seemed quite taken with the Captain and the Captain with him. Their mutual affection was plain to see.

She was still watching when Mrs. Muir brought the daffodils and had an exchange with the Captain just a few minutes ago - and there was no sign of Mrs. Muir being the slightest bit uncomfortable with the Captain. In fact, she seemed quite fond of him. Just as with Jonathan there was an apparent mutual affection there impossible to miss.

Claymore had made it seem that no one was happy with the Captain and the Captain was happy with no one and the best solution, the only solution would be to send the Captain away. The day after the exorcism Madame began to suspect that she might have made a mistake. Perhaps Claymore's account of the situation was not completely accurate. But by then it was too late, the Captain was gone and she was responsible. All during her travels she could not shake the feeling she had not made things better but had in fact made things much, much worse. What she saw in the mirror this day confirmed her worst suspicions - she had been wrong to exorcise the Captain.

Well, at least she knew beyond any doubt now that she was right to want to right the wrong of exorcising the Captain. Yes she was. But apparently she had failed to exorcise him in the first place and that did not sit well. At least she didn't need to worry about bringing him back. At most it would seem she needed to plan on giving Claymore a refund.

Her unanswered question however remained - why had she failed? Madame Tibaldi might not be the most organized of people, and some might find her eccentric and there was some things she could not do, such as flipping pancakes, that always went wrong, but contacting the spirits and exorcising them were a piece of cake for her. Always had been. She really did know her stuff. There had to be powerful forces at work here. Very powerful indeed. Either the Captain was tied by this unknown power to the cottage, or Mrs. Muir or someone in her household had managed to hold him there - or the Captain and Mrs. Muir might have even worked together. Hmm. Madame pondered. Her concentration was broken by the sight of more Battenberg cake beside the chess game. She forced her attention back to the mirror where nothing was happening. Well, that wasn't very helpful! Was it the cottage? Hmmmm. And more hmmmmmmm. Those fiery eyes of the Captain's kept dancing across her mind. The way Mrs. Muir smiled at him, why you would think...and the way he had looked at her was as if...

"Oh! Olivia Tibaldi, you are an idiot!" Madame said, mostly to herself. Mr. Crackstone overheard; his eyes rolled as he now employed a large, fluffy feather duster, but he managed not to say anything, at least not anything so clear Madame could understand.

Turning towards the Brothers Brewster, Madame declared, "It's Love!"


	17. Chapter 17

Meanwhile, back at Gull Cottage -

Still with the uneasy feeling of being watched, the Captain did the only thing he could do - he abandoned ship. Normally, Gull Cottage was his refuge from irritation, at least it was until the Muirs moved in. Although he had come to love the family and enjoy their presence in his home, sometimes a man just needed to be alone and that did not happen often anymore at the cottage. Besides, there was that nagging feeling...he narrowed his eyes and scrutinized every nook and corner of the cabin, but found nothing. He grumbled. A walk on the beach perhaps? He gazed out the window only to find Schooner Bay was beautiful and peaceful and not at all matching his mood. A deep sigh of resignation and then a thought and then he was gone!

Mere moments later he was on the shore, not of Schooner Bay, but of the Atlantic, just round the point beyond the entrance to the bay. Unlike the bay, the Atlantic was not peaceful. Here the waters were choppy and he could feel a storm brewing in his bones. Well, in what passed for bones at any rate. Some might look at her and see only a vast expanse of cold, gray, unwelcoming waters but to the Captain, she was the life rhythm thrumming in his veins - when he had veins. The sight of her gladdened his heart as much as if she were his mother which, in a way she was. He had gone to sea at a young age and although he sailed round the world, it was the Atlantic, particularly the North Atlantic that had been his watery home. She as much as anyone or anything else raised him, taught him, molded him into the man he was. Her lessons were infinite and she was generally unforgiving of careless errors, but for those strong and quick and keen as he was, she showed her secrets.

Crossing her waters he learned to trust his instincts and hone his reflexes. He learned too that life was a precious gift to be cherished, great dangers could forge greater friendships, and some losses could break even the strongest of men. He learned that the difference between success and failure often depended not on great deeds, but on mundane tasks done well.

So here he found himself, on the rocky shore, listening to her whispers and roars, her song as it were that brought him peace and comfort. As he walked he looked at the various gifts she had left among the rocks, bits of fish net, pretty pebbles, seashells, an old lobster claw, and his eye was caught by a glimmer. Two bits of sea glass, green, worn smooth by who knows how long it had been tossed by the waves. Green, just like the eyes of a certain someone very dear. He held the glass pieces up and caught the sunlight through them and thought of her. He could be with her now, enjoying her company, discussing the children, the weather, Scruffy, anything or nothing, instead he was out here, on the rocks, a temporary castaway from his own ship because of a silly feeling of being watched. After all, it just wasn't possible. He put the glass in his pocket and was about to head back home when he remembered what Mother Atlantic had taught him - trust his instincts. He knew every timber and nail in that cottage, if it did not feel right then something had to be wrong - but what?


	18. Chapter 18

Meanwhile back at the Cottage While the Captain's Away -

Mrs. Muir, notepad in hand, pen in her teeth, pencil behind ear was ready for battle with the large stack of books on the table before her. She had camped in the window seat, a cup of coffee on one end of the table, the rest covered in books and papers. She was working hard on research for the first installment of a six-article set on historic recipes of New England. The fun part was that Martha was involved as well - she picked the dishes to do, Mrs. Muir did the research and Martha did the cooking. The finished articles would have the history of the recipes and Martha's modern, foolproof interpretation of the instructions to guarantee delicious success for almost any cook. The collaboration was enjoyable as well as tasty.

The Captain had even been involved, telling Martha of the delightful things he remembered eating as a child and uncovering a couple of old recipe books to her delight, for Martha, cooking was one of her favorite things. This project had made her feel truly involved in Mrs. Muir's work as well as triggering Martha's own creative juices - she had felt as if she were in a bit of a red-flannel hash rut culinarily speaking as of late. Now she was humming away, working on Maple Apple Fritters that were just too tasty for words. When she gave a sample of the latest batch to Mrs. Muir she heartily agreed. The oldest recipe they had was from The Cook's Own Book by Mrs. N.K.M. Lee, 1832. Martha tested and tasted and found substitutions for uncommon ingredients - not everyone has Rose Water on hand - while Mrs. Muir checked the facts and wrote the article. They would still need to get a good picture of a plate of fritters. Claymore could help with that, as he seemed to be a man of as many skills as he had flaws.

Yet, with fritters on her mind, her plate and her palate, Carolyn Muir felt something was missing. The Captain. She had become attuned to him, his moods and his presence. She glanced at the portrait over the fire and knew he wasn't there. He wasn't in the cottage or outside. She wasn't worried - he was a grown ghost after all and he did go out and about when he wanted to. It was just that when he wasn't there the cottage somehow felt, not empty but less full. Less itself. It was cooler, less bright somehow and like it or not, she missed him. She did not like feeling dependent on him as she was a modern woman while at the same time, she had come to find his habitation of the cottage to create a comforting feel that vanished whenever he was not there. She did not need to see that he was there or not, she could feel it and she knew she was right. Still, he would be back, she could sense that too. If Martha kept up cooking fritters there might be a good bit more to Mrs. Muir before the Captain's return!

"Mrs. Muir? Are you listening?" Martha. notes in hand was standing on the other side of the stack of books.

"Hmmm? Oh, yes, I was just thinking about the fritters - they're really delicious," Mrs. Muir replied.

"Thanks," said, Martha and she meant it - she knew the fritters were wonderful, but she liked to know that others appreciated her cooking as well. "What I was saying was that I can't decide if I should tackle the Raspberry Charlotte or the Marlborough Pudding next, and I suppose we really ought to do a savory dish or two - and I was wondering if you had seen the Captain as I thought I'd see what he thought. You know, I'll never in a hundred years get over finding a ghost - a Ghost! helpful, but he is very surprising!

"He certainly is that," Mrs. Muir agree with a smile, "I never know what's he;s up too, that's for sure,"

"What who is up to?" Asked Captain Gregg as he popped in next to Martha.

"You, of course" answered Mrs. Muir with a chuckle, "Martha needs you," she said, not adding that she knew he had been away and she missed him, but the look he gave her made her wonder if he could read her mind.


	19. Chapter 19

Love. It can drive anyone to distraction.

Madame Tibaldi had returned to her home for a fitful night of restlessness, finally getting up at the crack of dawn. She had breakfast and then settled into her favorite chair to read the paper, think and have a second cup of coffee to start the day. She fell asleep instead, waking at noon to find half a cup of cold coffee still waiting for her.

She had to do something, but what? Oh the mess she had made, although it seems to have been unmade, but still...

She ought to give that Claymore Gregg a good talking too, using her to interfere in a love story - or, did he even know? Perhaps he was interested in Mrs. Muir himself and saw the Captain as a rival for her affections! What was his phone number, she could give him a call...but wait!

Suppose he really did not know about the feelings between Mrs. Muir and the Captain, then if she called him about it, she might be revealing their private business and that was no way to treat clients, even ones who did not know they were clients, but having determined to take action to correct her error, the Captain and Mrs. Muir were at least in some form, clients. Their privacy could not be jeopardized.

She could call Mrs. Muir, yes! She could call her and ask her how's things, and make some small talk before asking about the Captain and their love life and how's it going. No, no, no, oh no she could not, no definitely that would not work!

She could hold a seance and summon the Captain and ask him! Oh that would go over really well with the spirit realm! She'd probably become the laughing stock of the ectoplasmic crowd - and the Captain would never forgive her. Never as it was impossible to keep a secret in the spirit realm, the whole sorry tale would get out.

She needed to think. She needed a plan. Thinking and planning on half a cup of cold coffee was a bad idea. She dressed and returned to the alley to find the Brewsters and maybe some lunch?

The alley was just as she had left it, except where did she leave the little shop? It wasn't there until she turned around and there it was right where it was not a moment before, she was convinced of that. She sighed. At this point she was just going to go with it. No need and certainly no point to ask questions. She needed the shop, the shop was there. She knocked on the door.

The door opened as if on its own, and she entered to see no one. Crackstone's voice however called to her from above, "they are in the back, Madame. Feel free to join them." Madame looked up, trying to spot Crackstone and seeing instead what appeared to be a large animated pile of books moving slowly along the balcony. Then she noticed the pile of books had Crackstone's legs and was happy to know that at least some things were quite normal. If only our dear Madame had looked more closely she would have realized that while the books were moving with Crackstone he wasn't actually carrying them, but I suppose it doesn't really matter. I suppose.

In the back room Madame found the younger Brewsters still in their bathrobes and slippers. Elegant robes, velvet and silk to be certain but it was past noon. They both appeared quite disheveled and bleary eyed surrounded by books. Stacks and stacks on the floor, the table, in chairs, everywhere. Between the books were pieces of paper with notes, drawings, strange - to my eyes at least, symbols, calculations and other things beyond my ability to guess or describe.

Blending in to the upholstery of a well worn overstuffed chair in the corner was Obadiah Brewster who looked surprisingly awake. A little drop leaf table had been pulled next to his chair, with one leaf raised and positioned over the chair arm. On it was paper, an ink pot and Obadiah's hand, scribbling away with a quill pen. His arm almost seemed to have a mind of its own as Obadiah was looking the other way, frowning, not even bothering to look when he dipped his quill in the ink well.

"Oh Madame, do forgive me for not greeting you at the door," said Absalom, stifling a yawn, but as you can see we are working on your Problem and I feared I would lose my train of thought. He pushed a lock of his normally perfectly brushed hair from his forehead. Still, as ever an excellent host he added,"if you would like some lunch, there is plenty to be had, help yourself," and he motioned towards something resembling a buffet.

"We find when we are working on projects, its just easier to eat this way," explained Zachariah when he saw Madame appeared a bit unsure. "Just help yourself to anything you want," he added. Madame did as she was told - putting her purse down and taking her hat off, she looked over the dishes available - Waldorf Salad and Oyster Stew - do they really go together? She wondered. Baked Beans- well it is Boston after all, Pot Roast - a bit heavy for lunch, she thought, and Boston Creme Pie for dessert. Not a menu she would expect exactly, but everything looked good and besides, she was starved. She got a bowl of soup and filled a plate with samplings of the rest and crackers for the soup, grabbed a cup of coffee and sat down to find out what the Brewsters had discovered so far.


	20. Chapter 20

What the Brewsters and Crackstone had learned was more of a case of learning what the problem was not. Late in life, according to his brothers, Obadiah had become a devoted fan of Sherlock Holmes. He liked the idea that when you eliminate the impossible what is left are your possible solutions, and so he had been carefully considering and eliminating one possibility after another. She had to admire his thoroughness, he had considered every aspect of Schooner Bay, the Muirs, Martha, even Scruffy the dog, along with Captain Gregg and Claymore and Madame herself. Obadiah agreed with Madame that love was the key - but exactly how did it work in this case, that was the question!

So to this end, after Madame left for the day, Obadiah went to sleep. Not as we might sleep though. He stretched out on his back, hands folded over his chest, looking really rather not alive. He did not move. He did not even appear to breathe. He was as silent as the tomb, but only on the outside. On the inside, his mind was having a terrible time entering a state of higher thought. It suffered from an overload of information. He knew they had the clue they needed, but what exactly was it? He felt as if he were searching a beach for one particular particle of sand. He felt as if he were tossed on a stormy sea. He felt as if he were looking right at it and could not see it. He felt as if a good stiff brandy might be needed.

Still, he went through every mental exercise he knew to clear his mind so he could ponder the problem properly. Finally, a breakthrough. Obadiah Brewster was the quietest of the three Brewsters as well as being the oldest. This was due in part to not having much to say and in part to thinking far too much. When it came to some things, such as calculations and memorizations he was practically a genius He had one of those brains that never forgot anything. Once he saw it, heard it or thought it, it stayed in his mind. Naturally, his mind was very cluttered. But when he could pause as he did now, he could sort things out and often came up with answers no one was expecting.

In this instance, he had been thinking about the people involved as a series of notes.

Gregg, Daniel, Captain. Born _ _, 18_, Location, Schooner Bay, Maine

Muir, Carolyn, Widow. Born _ _, 19_. Location, ...

Born, born. Captain Gregg was born, Mrs. Muir was born - 100 years apart give or take a few. Out of time, born out of time...born...

Obadiah's eyes opened. Surely it could not be that simple. He sat up and went to his old writing desk. It was the middle of the night now. He liked to work by the light of oil lamps anyway. He grabbed some paper and put it aside, then he found some large pieces of vellum, just what he was looking for. Inks black and red, quill pens. A particular book of numbers, a compass and a straight edge and set to work.

His practiced hands soon produced two blank circular charts, one on each page. Now the real work began. He checked his notes just to be certain he had the right birth dates and locations in his mind - he did, but being a careful man he always checked just in case. Then he checked his book and another of geographic information and began to calculate the Sun and Moon and Planets of two natal charts. One in black for the Captain, one in red for Mrs. Muir. When finished he almost smiled. Almost. There it was as plain as the nose on your face. It had been right in front of him the whole time. Looking at the charts they did not appear in any way extraordinary. But when one was laid on top of the other and held up to a light they fit together like hand in glove. Two halves of one whole. a Yin Yang effect. The Captain and Mrs. Muir were made for each other but someone had had bad timing. Once they met though, well, hearts know where they belong.

Obadiah went back to bed.

The next day, Madame returned, hoping against hope to find the answers, a cup of coffee and something tasty. She found all three.

Obadiah now rested explained that there was nothing to worry about. One day Mrs. Muir would die, and her spirit would join the Captain's happily ever here after. This seemed a fine solution to the eldest Brewster. The brothers looked a bit pained, Crackstone rolled his eyes and Madame just sat shaking her head and trying to find a way to explain why that was not a fine solution for anyone, but how do you explain something that should be painfully obvious to someone who is apparently rather oblivious? Madame's attempts were reduced to stutters and gasps.

Still, Obadiah could sense that no one except himself seemed satisfied with his answer. So he said there was one other option but it would require some serious effort. "What was it?" everyone wondered. "Re-constitution" answered Obadiah "That is to say, we must Re-constitute the Captain." The younger Brewsters were muttering something under their breaths that sounded like no, no, no, a look of horror crossed Crackstone's face as he whispered, "Oh God, no!"

But Madame, feeling her old optimism flooding back in her veins smiled and asked a few basic questions, was it complicated, could they do it soon and would it hurt?

Obadiah for once genuinely smiled and assured her he would not feel a thing.


	21. Chapter 21

Madame mulled over the idea of "reconstituting" the Captain. She understood the term as it related to cooking, but not as it pertained to ghosts. While Obediah Brewster seemed confident it was the right course, his younger brothers seemed to have some reservations and Crackstone was absolutely certain it was neither necessary nor something to undertake lightly. Crackstone often seemed the most sensible of the bunch and a veritable genius as well, so his concerns concerned her greatly.

As for Obediah, he seemed to come alive looking for this answer and he certainly did not want to abandon it without cause. The other brothers granted that it could be a smashing success, but also felt it was important that Madame know it could also be worse than a failure. It could in fact have disastrous results.

"Exactly how disastrous are we talking about?" Madame asked.

Absalom started to speak but Zachariah beat him to it. "The Captain, as you know him, may never be seen on the face of the Earth again" he said in the darkest of tones.

"Oh don't be so melodramatic, Zachariah. My goodness. Here Madame, have some of Lady Baltimore's Cake. Always perks me right up" offered Obediah.

"Until it makes you cry," cautioned Absalom. "Oh it won't do that to you Madame, but it has that effect on Obediah."

Obediah did look a bit lost in thought for a moment. "True. A bad romance with a beautiful lady leaves bittersweet memories, alas. Still, we have her recipe to comfort me in my darkest hours."

Madame tried and failed to picture a romantic Obediah. Most of the time he looked more like a corpse- but Madame was too polite to mention that. "The cake is lovely," and it was with fluffy white frosting - since first meeting the Brewsters Madame had gained at least 10 pounds and noticed a definite tightness in her waistline. "but I really would like to know more about what exactly is involved in reconstituting the Captain."

Settling around the table, Obediah explained about life and death and ghosts.

Addressing Madame, he began, "You probably think the Captain is a ghost because he died. This is not the case. If all it took to be a ghost was death, the world would be filled with them. There are many ways one becomes a ghost, in the Captain's case, I expect it was because of Mrs. Muir."

Madame took a large bite of cake and thought the poor man had gone round the bend as surely he understood that Mrs. Muir had not been born when the Captain died. In fact her parents hadn't even been born when the Captain died.

As if reading her thoughts, Obediah continued."Although Mrs. Muir had not been born, that did not matter. The Captain's soul knew it was waiting for its soul mate. The only problem was, it had no idea how long it would have to wait, no idea of the rather cruel twist of fate or cosmic error, however you wish to see it, that landed them in the right place but at the wrong time making it impossible to meet in normal time in the mortal realm. But what is time to a soul? Nothing, that's what. Nothing at all. A day or a century its all the same. So when his body unexpectedly expired, his soul chose, actively chose to remain."

Everyone remained silent, looking thoughtful as they pondered Obediah's statements.

"That moment when the Captain's soul chose to remain is when things really took a turn for the worse and created the problem which we will solve by the process of re-constitution."

Madame looked skeptical, Crackstone looked ill.

"You see, in order to be a ghost and not just a vague wandering wisp of a spirit, the Captain's soul had to combine with matter."

"Matter?" said Madame.

"Yes, matter," said Obediah. "Your soul is made of energy, your body is made of matter. A soul that has not combined with matter has only the faintest of appearance to the naked eye in broad daylight. It is easier to see them at night because being energy, they do glow."

(Obediah thought to himself if only people knew the true nature of the Northern Lights, that it was actually a Dance of Souls, but nobody would believe that so he just kept it to himself)

"Now, the tricky bit is finding compatible matter. The Captain's soul left the body and re-combined with the closest matter it could find - Gull Cottage. I am convinced this is the case. Apparently the entire cottage. Now if the cottage. had been living organic material things would be different, but its not. Its matter gives the Captain the ability to be visible, to move things and so on as energy + matter can produce great power, but it also has in a way crippled him. He is bound to the cottage as it is as much a part of himself as, well a part of himself. He can probably make short journeys away in the physical plane, and of course he can travel the astral plane, but still, ultimately he is bound to the cottage. More importantly, as long as he is combined with the cottage, he can never change - he cannot move on to the next step for a spirit, nor can he move back towards life. Its a Devil's Bargain he chose in what was no doubt a rash moment. We can change that. We will uncombine the Captain from the cottage. Separate his soul from its matter prison and set him free. He will have a choice as to how to exist, all thanks to you Madame!"


End file.
